


Domino Day

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [50]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: Aramis gets into an accident on his way home. That's only the start of his problems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



The weather has not improved one iota when Aramis walks home on the fateful day of d’Artagnan and Constance’s first official coffee date. It’s still drizzling, once more dark and uncomfortable, damnably foggy - now with the added bonus of rush-hour traffic.

Not that Aramis is complaining. It’s nice to be out of the shop this early for once. He might even get home before Porthos. But their usually so peaceful part of town is annoyingly crowded during this time of day; cars are lining the streets, headlights dazzling in the gloom, while pedestrians and cyclists are competing for the sidewalks.

The fact that unfinished construction work has turned those sidewalks into a remarkably exciting obstacle course doesn’t help. Aramis kind of wishes he’d stayed in the shop a little longer, if only to avoid all the elderly people walking with sticks, who have no reason to be out at this hour at all, yet seem intent on getting in everyone’s way nevertheless.

He’s tired, wet and cold, and all he wants to do is get home as quickly as possible. Maybe that is why he doesn’t see the bicycle. Or maybe it is because the bicycle has no business driving on this side of the road. Whatever the reason, they collide, painfully.

The impact knocks all the air out of Aramis’ lungs, leaves him gasping in pain as the cyclist falls to the right and onto an elderly man who promptly whacks him with his stick.

Aramis is in no position to take note of that neat execution of karmic fate. Because he has fallen to the left and into the busy street - right in front of a car.

Tires squeal, someone screams, and then he’s down, on the ground, aching all over.

He’s even colder than he was before, and much, much wetter. An eternity passes. Or maybe it just feels that way. Unconsciousness would be bliss, at this point. Nevertheless Aramis finds himself looking up at the sky, cloudy and uncaring overhead, endlessly drizzling. He whimpers.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” The woman rushing to Aramis’ side is grey in the face, looks like she might faint any moment. “Are you alright?”

She’s very pretty, Aramis notices through the rising murk in front of his vision. He wishes he could get up to see her properly. But something seems to keep him down, and his head hurts quite a lot. God, he feels so heavy.

“Please don’t cry,” he hears himself say, mobilizing all his strength to reach up and wipe a tear from her face. Something must be wrong with his mouth. He sounds funny. “I’m so sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s that damn cyclist’s fault!” someone yells behind him, and Aramis closes his eyes, suddenly feeling woozy.

“My leg hurts,” he mumbles. “So much.”

“Somebody call an ambulance!” the pretty woman shouts, and then her hands are on his face, gently cupping his cheeks, wonderfully warm. “Stay with me,” she whispers. “No fainting, you hear me?”

“Porthos will be so worried,” Aramis tells her, feeling quite guilty about that. “And Athos will be so mad. He might send a hitman.”

“He’s delirious,” someone comments, sounding as if they’re standing very far away. “Must be a concussion.”

“Should we move him?” someone else asks. “The street is so wet.”

“Everything else is just as wet,” is the daunting reply. “Just hold your umbrella over him.”

By the time the ambulance arrives Aramis is cold through and through and very aware of the pulsating pain in his right leg. The woman who hit him with her car has introduced herself as Marguerite. She remains with the police while he’s being put on a stretcher, looking distracted with worry as she gives her statement.

Aramis wishes he could stay with her to help. But he can’t. It’s difficult enough to stay awake, difficult enough to answer the questions of the medics.

“I need my phone,” he whispers before finally dozing off. “I need to call my boyfriends.”

“That’s quite alright, sweetheart,” his medic tells him. “We’ll call them for you.”

 

When Aramis wakes up, Porthos is sitting in a chair at his right bedside, eyes fixed on his face. “He’s comin’ to.”

The window behind him is dark, the night sky outside speckled with stars, and the only illumination in the room is the tiny lamp right above Aramis’ head. It’s still enough to give him a headache, and he squints, lets out a little groan.

“Oh thank the Lord.” Athos’ voice is liquid with relief, and when he moves into Aramis’ peripheral vision to stand beside Porthos he’s smiling, soft and worried. “How are you feeling?”

Aramis promptly bursts into tears. “I am so sorry!”

“Oh pumpkin, don’t cry.” Porthos springs up from his chair and squeezes onto the mattress next to Aramis, takes him into his arms, holds him tight. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was!” Aramis wails, clinging to him. “It all happened just because I wasn’t paying attention - and I scared that pretty lady, too!”

By the time he calms down the front of Porthos’ sweater is rather moist, not to say snotty. Another reason for guilt. Porthos merely waves him off when he tries to apologize, and Athos attempts to hand him his handkerchief. “Here, dry your tears.”

He sits down at Aramis’ free side when Aramis doesn’t immediately comply, and uncompromisingly pulls him away from Porthos and into his own arms, strokes his fingers through Aramis’ hair. “Are you in pain?”

“A little,” Aramis whispers, quite overwhelmed by this show of possessiveness. “But it’s manageable.”

“Good,” Porthos grunts behind him. “And by the way: it wasn’t your fault. Several eyewitnesses said so. The cyclist drove right through a construction site and into you. You did nothin’ wrong.”

That actually goes a long way towards making Aramis feel better, and he dares to lift his face away from Athos’ chest, looks up into his eyes. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Athos huffs, exhausted, but fond. “I did not assume that you did.”

He brings his handkerchief up to Aramis’ face, dries his tears and orders him to blow his nose - carefully.

“You have a concussion,” he explains, “some bruised skin … and you broke your leg.”

Aramis freezes and stares down the length of the bed - or more precisely at the cast sticking out of the blankets.

“My pants!” he shrieks.

Porthos chuckles. “Yeah, kitten. I fear they had to cut them open. They couldn’t get them off without hurtin’ you - too skinny, you see.”

Aramis groans and buries his face in Athos’ flannel shirt. “I want to go home.”

“All in good time,” Athos tells him. “They want to keep you here for now - because of the concussion.”

Aramis tenses. He doesn’t want to spend the night in the hospital - more precisely, he doesn’t want to spend the night in the hospital _alone_.

“Don’t worry,” Porthos whispers into his ear, leaning in. “We’re gonna stay with you - take you home in the mornin’ once the good doctor says we can. Athos bullied the nurses until they said we could - got you this nice, single room, too.”

Aramis almost bursts into tears again. “I love you guys.”

“Right back atcha,” Porthos murmurs, kissing the shell of his ear.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s rather late in the morning when Aramis wakes up once more. The previous day’s clouds have dispersed during the night, allowing the sun to shine into his room and illuminate an idyllic autumn scene outside. His third-floor window is overlooking a cluster of trees in various stages of the autumnal colour-spectrum, and a squirrel keeps chasing up and down their trunks, bushy tail twitching nervously.

Aramis smiles. He turns his head when he notices that someone is looking at him, encounters Porthos’ fond gaze from where he’s sitting on a chair a little to the left, his back to the huge window. “Good mornin’, kitten. I hope you slept well.”

He looks tired, but content, and his voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper. Aramis promptly reaches out his hand for him, and Porthos gets up with a little groan, rolls his shoulders.

“Did you sleep in that chair?” Aramis asks, whispering for no other reason than that Porthos did, too. “Is your back alright?”

“I’m fine,” Porthos soothes him, taking his hand and sitting down on the side of the bed.

“Where’s Athos?” is the natural follow-up question.

Porthos points his chin at the other side of Aramis’ bed. “Right beside you.”

When Aramis turns around in some confusion he beholds Athos on the ground, stretched out under a blanket, sleeping soundlessly, his hair a mop of tangled locks spilling out over a cushion.

“Still conked out, the poor soul,” Porthos comments quietly. “And no wonder after all that excitement yesterday.” He makes himself comfortable on the mattress next to Aramis, and Aramis shimmies up to him as best he can, snuggles into his shoulder when Porthos puts his arm around him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Porthos murmurs, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “He always freaks out when hospitals are involved, and when we got the call yesterday … well. It was a bit of a shock.”

Aramis dimly remembers the medic who called him a sweetheart and blushes furiously. “I see.”

Porthos nuzzles his cheek. “The guy on the phone was very nice though. Told us not to worry right away. I wonder why he didn’t call your family. Isn’t that the usual procedure?”

“I think it’s because I told him I had to call you guys,” Aramis mumbles, turns his face into his neck.

“That explains it,” Porthos chuckles, stroking his fingers through Aramis’ hair. “Might have been the only thing that kept Athos from chartering a helicopter to get to your side as quickly as possible … not that I was much better.”

Aramis pulls back a little so he can look into his eyes. “I already said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

“Just tryin’ to make you feel loved,” Porthos winks. “You can’t imagine our distraction! It was bad enough when you’d merely been cat-napped the other night … it’s a little miracle we didn’t kill anyone on the way over here. We were quite the pair of headless chickens, you see.”

His tone is light, but there’s an earnestness lurking underneath that gives Aramis goosebumps. “Did you talk to my doctor?”

“We sure did,” Porthos confirms. “Didn’t wanna tell us anythin’ at first, cause we’re not family and all that, but when Athos called your Mom and had her yell at him over the line he finally gave in.”

Aramis twitches, and Porthos clears his throat, puts his arm around his shoulders and holds him tight. “Your parents say hi, by the way. They’ll come and visit you in a few days.”

“Oh God, this is so embarrassing,” Aramis mutters, screwing his eyes shut. “Bloody typical, too.”

“Muffin, I’m devastated to tell you this, but people break their legs all the time, and it wasn’t even your fault. Will you please stop feelin’ guilty about this.”

Aramis takes a deep breath, prims his mouth. “Never.”

Porthos chuckles. “Now that really is typical.”

Aramis manages a little grin - then something occurs to him, makes him widen his eyes in sudden terror. “Did you call Constance?”

Now it’s Porthos’ turn to twitch. “Aw, blast it, I knew I’d forgotten somethin'!”

He gets up and fishes his phone out of his pocket, looks at the screen and curses. “Battery must have died on me in the night. Yours is dead as well.” He huffs. “We’ll have to wake sleepin' beauty over there.”

He takes a few decisive steps around the bed and crouches down beside Athos’ prone form, gives it a gentle shake at the shoulder. “Love? Anyone alive in there?”

Athos groans and pushes his hand away, pulls the blanket over his head. “Go away.”

“I need your phone,” Porthos says patiently.

That doesn’t immediately result in a reaction, but eventually Athos’ hand comes up from underneath the blanket, phone in its clasp. Porthos takes it. “Thank you.”

He stands back up, unlocks the screen and dials Constance’s number, while Aramis stares everywhere but at him, preferring to get a proper look at his room. He wonders if there’s such a thing as first class hospital rooms. Because this one sure is nice. Almost comfortable. Not even the curtains are revolting.

Apparently Constance picks up fairly quickly, because Aramis can see Porthos grimace from the corner of his eye, which makes him stare at the framed art print opposite the bed all the harder.

“He’s alive, he’s alive,” Aramis hears him say in a soothing tone of voice. “Got into an accident on his way home yesterday though, so he won’t be comin’ in today. Sorry we didn’t call you sooner.”

He makes eye-contact with Aramis, smiles when he catches Aramis biting his lip. “Broke his leg and got a mild concussion. Nothin’ to worry about. Athos and I will take him home soon. Do you want him to call you later? … Alright, will do. Take care, Constance.”

He hangs up, and the blanket beside Aramis’ bed sits up, radiating grumpiness. “How late is it?”

“Almost ten,” Porthos says while Athos clambers to his feet, just to immediately sneak into bed with Aramis and hug him tight while glaring at Porthos.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I just did,” Porthos points out.

“Why didn’t you wake me _sooner_ ,” Athos grumbles, taking Aramis’ hand. “How are you?”

“Quite well,” Aramis tells him. “I just really need to pee.”

That’s of course when the door opens, and a white-robed man steps inside. “Mr Herblay! How good to see you awake!” He introduces himself as Doctor Lemay, shakes Aramis’ hand and doesn’t bat an eye at the fact that Athos is in bed with him.

Athos still doesn’t allow him to finish his introductory speech. “I fear he needs the bathroom, Doctor. Excuse us for a moment.”

Aramis blushes furiously. “Athos, really, I -”

“Not a problem at all,” the good Doctor smiles. “I shall come back in a few minutes.”

“Your Grandma’s got this wing named after her, hasn’t she,” Porthos grunts once he’s left the room. Athos doesn’t gratify him with a reply.

“Will you please help him to the bathroom,” he says instead, his voice very dignified. “I shall see what I can do about breakfast.”

He marches out of the room, head held high, while Aramis blinks after him, somewhat confused. “Is he alright?”

“He’s in intense protective mode,” Porthos explains, sounding both amused and exasperated. “He should recover soon. Come on now, let me help you to the bathroom.”

Aramis bites his lip and scrambles very carefully to the side of the bed, where Porthos picks him up - despite the perfectly functional wheelchair standing right next to him. Aramis rather likes it. Only when Porthos puts him down in front of the toilet in the adjoining bathroom does he start to feel embarrassed. “I … I think I can manage the rest.”

“You sure?” Porthos asks. “Because it’s nothin’ I’ve never seen before.” He grins. “Or licked.”

“Context!” Aramis shrieks, pushing at his shoulder. “Please wait outside!”

Porthos grins a little wider. “You’re cute,” he tells Aramis, gives him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

How Aramis doesn’t propose to him on the spot he has no idea.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Doctor Lemay comes back into the room Athos has returned with ample provisions. Not from the hospital-based café, because he’d deemed that to be substandard out of hand. Instead he’s brought Aramis two gigantic paper bags full of deliciousness from the bakery across the street, and he refuses to let Aramis share with Porthos.

Thus the good doctor finds Aramis guiltily munching on a chocolate muffin while Porthos’ stomach growls balefully in the background. It seems that Athos’ intense protective mode will last a little longer than Porthos anticipated.

Aramis hastily puts down the food when the Doctor enters, and wipes his hands on a paper napkin. “Doctor! I’m so sorry about -”

“No need, no need,” Doctor Lemay smiles at him. “It’s indeed quite pleasant to find my patients so very well cared for in their private life. Takes a load of my chest, so to speak.” He moves to stand at the foot of Aramis’ bed. “How are you feeling?”

Aramis knows that he’s blushing, for the Doctor is quite handsome, and Aramis tends to blush around good-looking people. He clears his throat. “I don’t know, really. A bit … bruised?”

“You certainly are that,” Doctor Lemay agrees. “When you check out later I advise you stop by our pharmacy - I included some healing cream in your to-go bag.”

“Then I’m free to leave?” Aramis asks hopefully. Because as nice as the Doctor seems to be, he can’t wait to get home. Hospitals are just so … busy. Stressful.

The Doctor smiles yet again. “Yes, you are. Your concussion appears to be very mild, and will require you to rest for a few days, but you can do that in your own home much more comfortably than here, I imagine. I advise you not to read or watch any TV in case you start to feel nauseous.”

“What about his leg?” Athos asks, his tone a little more cordial than earlier. Possibly because the Doctor is doing his best to be nice. Aramis can’t tell.

“It’s a clean break,” the Doctor informs them, “and should heal without complications. The cast should stay on for at least 6 weeks.”

Aramis feels tempted to groan, but refrains. Constance is going to kill him.

“The hospital will provide you with a wheelchair should you require one, and of course a set of crutches,” the good Doctor continues. “It goes without saying that you should stay off your leg at all times and rest it as much as possible.”

He looks from Athos to Porthos and encounters grim determination on both their faces. “I assume these gentlemen will take care that you follow my instructions.”

“You bet,” Porthos agrees cheerfully. Athos merely glares. Aramis isn’t sure why. He’s certainly not planning on overexerting himself in any way, and it’s hardly the Doctor’s fault that he broke his leg.

“I promise I’ll be good,” he says softly. Athos promptly glares a lot more.

Doctor Lemay clears his throat. “Splendid. Remember to sign out before you leave, and to take your medication with you. It includes painkillers since the ones you received yesterday should wear off soon.”

He turns to leave, and stops, his hand on the door handle. “Oh, and Mr Herblay?”

“Yes?” Aramis asks, pulse spiking.

“Maybe fill out some forms to update your living will and patient decree, yes? So there won’t be any issues should anything like this happen again.”

Aramis stares at him for a long moment, and eventually manages a weak nod. “Okay.”

The Doctor’s smile widens a little, and then he leaves, softly closes the door behind him.

“I like him,” Porthos decides in a mild voice. “He’s a good guy. Now give me some of that muffin before I bite someone’s head off.”

 

The pain medication makes Aramis drowsy. Nevertheless he calls Constance on his way home, because there’s a freaking power plug next to his seat in the limousine. Yes. Limousine. Aramis assumes it’s a loan from Athos’ parents since it has an Anders in the driver’s seat.

Which is the first information Aramis relays to Constance when she picks up. “He has a little hat and everything,” he tells her happily.

There’s a brief but pregnant moment of silence. “You’re high,” Constance says then.

“Only very mildly medicated,” Aramis corrects her, smiling sunnily. “So I don’t hurt all over.”

“Oh God, you poor darling,” Constance sighs. “How did this happen?”

“It was foggy,” Aramis tries to explain. “There was a cyclist. And a pretty lady with a flower name.” He cuddles into Porthos when he snorts, holds on to his elbow. “She hit me with her car.”

Something occurs to him then. “Constance! Constance, the Doctor said I have to wear a cast for six weeks! What are we going to do? D’Artagnan can’t possibly handle all the -”

“This is not something you should worry about right now. You focus on getting better,” Constance interrupts him. “I will find a way to make this work.”

Aramis frowns. It’s like she doesn’t know him at all. “How am I supposed to stop worrying? It’s what comes _naturally_ , Constance - it just happens!”

In the seat opposite from him, Athos reaches out a demanding hand. “Give me the phone.”

Aramis is flabbergasted enough to hand it over without struggling.

“If I buy him a sewing machine that enables him to work from home,” Athos says into the receiver without preamble, “are you prepared to handle the back and forth, or should I hire a new Turtle Boy to help you out?”

Next to Aramis, Porthos snorts again and turns his face into Aramis’ hair. “Unbelievable.”

Athos narrows his eyes at him. Aramis’ brain is still trying to process what’s going on.

“You can’t!” he whispers eventually. “It’s far too expensive!”

Athos waves him off, and Porthos gives Aramis’ thigh a gentle pat, says one single word. “Limousine.”

There is that, of course. Still. Aramis doesn’t think he should let this happen. Thus he gestures at Athos to give him back his phone, and is summarily ignored.

“Sounds good,” Athos tells the receiver, sounding very business-like. He’s staring rather hard at his knee in his effort to ignore Aramis, so Aramis struggles to sit up straight in his seat and get his phone back by himself. Porthos promptly clamps an arm over his shoulders to hold him still.

“We have a deal.” Athos hangs up and hands Aramis back his phone. “I shall start making calls about that sewing machine as soon as we get home.”

Aramis stares at him. “You can’t.”

“Yes,” Athos says, very calmly. “I can.”

Porthos sighs into Aramis’ hair. “Oh dear.”

“I won’t let you!” Aramis says, somewhat agitated. “It’s bad enough that I -”

“It is bad enough that you will be physically hampered for the next six weeks,” Athos cuts him off, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. “I will not allow you to worry about Constance or work for the whole duration of that time.”

Aramis flushes all over, possibly of anger. “But my sewing machine at work is -”

“Very old,” Athos interrupts him yet again. “Constance told me.”

Aramis stares at him. Angry tears are biting at the back of his eyes.

“Love, I think you’ve been misreadin’ the reason’ for his resistance,” Porthos says quietly, sounding remarkably uncomfortable.

Athos blinks. Half a second later he’s kneeling in front of Aramis, eyes wide open and remorseful. “I did not mean to upset you, Aramis. Please forgive me.” He takes Aramis’ hands into his, gives them a gentle squeeze. “I won’t do anything you do not want me to do.”

Aramis sniffs. “It’s just that it was my Grandma’s sewing machine, and -” He stops and bites his lip. “I don’t want a new one.” He pulls his right hand out of Athos’ grasp and wipes at his eyes, goes warm all over with shame. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I got so angry.”

“You’re exhausted, is all,” Porthos murmurs into his ear, stroking his hand up and down his arm. “You’ll feel better once you’re in bed after a nice, hot bath. I’m gonna bag your wonky foot and everythin’.”

Aramis nods and takes a careful peek at Athos, still kneeling on the floor in front of him. “I’m sorry.”

Athos smiles at him. “It appears that it was time for my overbearing nature to receive a check.” He stretches up to brush a kiss to Aramis’ lips. “Forgive me.”

Aramis throws his arms around him and holds him tight, closes his eyes. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

“Always,” Athos tells him, the word a promise. “Always, Aramis.”


	4. Chapter 4

Getting out of the car, into the house, through the lobby and into the elevator has never been this cumbersome. The cabin is barely big enough to hold Aramis’ wheelchair, not to mention his two companions, plus the crutches Porthos is carrying. Athos insists on staying beside Aramis nevertheless, so Porthos very briefly parts from them to take the stairs, leaving Aramis and Athos alone in exhausted silence.

He’s waiting for them when the elevator doors open, breathless and smiling, and Aramis automatically smiles back, feeling too raw and tired to hold it inside. Not that there’s a reason to do that anyway. He’s just very aware of his shields being down.

“All I want to do is go to sleep,” he discloses.

Porthos has other ideas. “First you gotta have a proper breakfast,” he insists. “You barely nibbled on that chocolate muffin earlier. And once you’ve eaten you’ll take a bath - or I could just wash you if that’s too much of a hassle.”

Aramis looks up at him in amazed silence.

“I think we should start with getting him into the apartment first,” Athos drawls, his back still pressed into the elevator wall behind him. “If you would be so kind to step aside.”

So Porthos moves out of their way to unlock the apartment door and put the crutches away, while Athos pushes the wheelchair out into the hallway and towards home base. Aramis feels rather useless already. But the kittens are gratifyingly pleased to see them, chirp and meow at them and get underfoot wherever they can. Howard ends his display of affection by jumping up into Aramis’ lap, purring insistently.

“What a smart baby,” Aramis tells him, gently petting his head. “You know perfectly well that your purring helps heal bones faster, don’t you?”

Porthos snorts and bends down to remove Aramis’ left shoe, replaces it with a knitted felt slipper. “I’m sure he does. Do you need the bathroom before I help you onto the couch?”

“No, I’m good,” Aramis says, lifting Howard up to rub him all over his face. “You’re so _soft_.”

Howard reveals hitherto unknown purring capabilities, and Tom promptly jumps after him to get some love as well. Santiago remains on the floor, meeping forlornly.

“I’m gonna die,” Porthos comments. “Of cuteness. Hold on to your butts, kittens, we’re takin’ off.” He gives the wheelchair a gentle push, and Tom wobbles, but stays in place, tries to crawl under Aramis’ pullover.

Athos follows them all, cradling Santiago to his chest. “Would you like some tea, Aramis?”

“That would be lovely,” Aramis says, reluctant to let go of Howard so Porthos can lift him onto the sofa. Porthos plucks Tom off him with uncompromising briskness though, and then holds out his hand to receive the second kitten as well.

“You can have him right back, I promise.”

Thus Aramis hands over his kitten, and is gently manoeuvred onto the couch, broken leg elevated on a cushion, before Porthos puts a blanket over his body and decorates him with kittens.

“There,” Porthos says, admiring his handiwork. “You good?”

“Perfect,” Aramis sighs. “Thank you.”

Porthos leans over him and brushes a kiss to his forehead. “Do you want anythin’ special for breakfast?”

“Just some bread, please,” Aramis whispers.

“And some yoghurt as well? With fruit? You need your calcium,” Porthos suggests gently just when Athos returns with a cup for tea for Aramis.

“That sounds like a good idea. Do that, please.”

Porthos chuckles, releases a warm breath against Aramis’ cheek. “Back to bein’ a horrible little dictator, I see.”

Athos goes rigid and blushes, and Aramis bites his lip, watches Porthos straighten and turn around to put both hands on Athos’ shoulders. “I suggest you have a glass of wine, love.”

Athos evades his gaze. “I do not want a glass of wine.”

Porthos grins. “Oh, but you _need_ one. So do us all a favour and get a little drunk, eh? It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

Athos looks up at him then, eyes wide and remorseful. “Am I that bad?”

Porthos pulls him into his arms. “No, love. You’re that _stressed_. I just want you to relax a little.”

Seeing Athos melt into him feels amazing, and brings down Aramis’ own stress-levels by about two million percent. Especially when Santiago crawls under his blanket and turns himself into an ominously moving lump on Aramis’ lap.

“I love you,” he tells the world in general. “So much.”

Athos and Porthos part to smile at him and return the sentiment.

“I shall go and get that bottle of wine then,” Athos sighs, reluctantly pulling away from Porthos.

“And I’ll fix you that breakfast, kitten.” He fluffs Athos’ hair. “What do you wanna eat, love?”

“Just some bread and butter,” Athos replies, smiling up at him. “Which I can prepare myself.”

Porthos gives him a kiss. “That you certainly can.” He releases him to take care of the food, and Aramis closes his eyes and leans his head back against the sofa. He’s really tired.

Athos returns to his side a moment later with bread and wine and a slice of cheese Porthos must have snuck onto his plate. He sits down very gingerly, but Aramis can feel the force of his gaze, loving and worried and nervous all rolled into one. “Are you in pain?”

“Just a little,” Aramis whispers, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m just so tired.”

“I’ll put you to bed soon, don’t you worry,” Porthos says from the kitchen area. “All warm and comfortable.”

“That sounds amazing.” Aramis sighs, opens his eyes when he senses Porthos’ approach, takes the bowl with yoghurt and fruit from him - nuts and drizzled honey on top. “You’re amazing.”

Porthos winks at him and makes another trip to the kitchen counter, comes back with Aramis’ bread and a bowl of muesli for himself. They eat in silence, Porthos having coffee while Athos sips his wine, and the kittens enjoy a late breakfast of their own.

Once there’s no food left uneaten in their general vicinity Porthos gets up from the couch, rolls up his sleeves. “Very well then. Lemme get you naked.”

Aramis is too exhausted to do so much as blush. “I think I’ll drown in the tub, at this rate.”

“Kitten wash it is then,” Porthos grins. “Literally.”

Athos gets to his feet as well. “I shall turn up the heater in the bathroom.” He swiftly walks away to make good on that plan, and Porthos frees Aramis from his blanket, lifts him into his arms.

“The wheelchair,” Aramis reminds him.

Porthos hugs him closer. “I don’t think so.” He carries Aramis to the bathroom without the help of any appliances, puts him down on the toilet lid and smiles at him. “There, no problem at all.”

Getting Aramis out of his clothes is a little more difficult, but they manage that as well, transfer Aramis onto a low footstool Athos brings them from his room before he dims the ceiling lights, considerate of Aramis’ headache. Then he leaves them alone. Porthos washes Aramis in comfortable silence, his touch gentle, the washcloth wonderfully soft and warm with soapy water.

“There, all good to go,” Porthos tells him eventually, brushing Aramis’ hair away from his face. “All nice and clean.”

He helps Aramis into fresh underwear and a giant sweatshirt, and picks him up again, carries Aramis to their room. Athos is already sitting in the armchair by the bed, reading. He puts the book down and and smiles at Aramis, watches as Porthos puts him to bed.

“I am going to stay with you while you sleep,” he says, lifts his chin a little. “If that is alright.”

“More than alright,” Aramis whispers, his face breaking into a smile of his own. “Thank you so much.”


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis is still asleep when his medication wears off. The pain sneaks into his unconscious mind, blows black dust over his dreams. He groans, unable to escape as his imagination turns on him - as it conjures up reality as it might have been.

Because his mind still remembers what Porthos told him about their reception of the news of his accident, is intend on expanding the narrative, spinning ever onward.

The memory of Porthos’ voice in his ear might be the reason why it’s Porthos who picks up the phone. It’s an old-fashioned design hanging on a brick wall in a place that’s their home but not. Nothing is right, the windows too small, the room too empty, too cold. Aramis sees Porthos face turn ashen against the stark black of the phone receiver; he can _feel_ the air turn to ice in Porthos’ lungs from the shock, and his own lungs seize in sympathy.

The nightmare sequence plays out frame by frame, colours muted, dust motes dancing in the air. Across the empty room Athos senses that something is wrong, turns around and looks at Porthos, takes a step towards him and freezes when he hears Porthos speak.

“He was hit by a car?”

Just that one sentence, yet it fractures reality, shakes up the room and turns it into an impact zone - smashes the floor and lets it fall into nothingness. There’s no firm ground to stand on anymore.

Aramis’ mind tries to fight the nightmare, wants to tell him that everything’s alright - wants to soothe Athos and Porthos, take them into his arms and comfort them. But he can’t speak. He’s a ghost, watching them unravel, helpless against the fear consuming them.

“He’s in the hospital,” Porthos says, and Athos crumbles. He looks broken suddenly, his face not his own anymore, eyes blank and dark against his white skin. Again Aramis wants to tell them that he’s _alright_ , wants to yell and shake them. This is wrong. This is all wrong.

He has to watch them scramble into their clothes by a door that doesn’t belong in their home - grey and smooth instead of white and brass clad. Nothing feels right, and they’re jerking into each other, out of balance, separate. They should comfort each other. Instead they’re silent, strangled by their fear, and Aramis is choking on his guilt. He did this. This is all his fault. He’s the one who did this to them.

They flicker out the door and outside without setting foot into the hallway or the elevator, morph from one environment to the other like puppets on strings. Outside the streets are dirty and crowded, wet with rain. They’re barefoot, suddenly, cold and _hurt_ ; Porthos is limping, feet bloody, yet he struggles on, face lined with determination.

Athos is crying, doesn’t make a sound, and still they do not talk to each other. They try to hail a cab, but none are stopping; they zoom by, much too fast, blinding headlights in the darkness. So they try to run, but the sidewalks are too crowded, the people won’t let them through, swallow them up until Aramis can’t see them any more.

They’re gone.

This is all his fault. All of it. It’s all his fault.

 

“Hey - hey, it’s alright, Aramis. Wake up, shht, you have to breathe.”

Aramis chokes and wakes up to Athos’ hand in his hair, gentle and warm. When he opens his eyes Athos is standing over him, so very worried, and Aramis fights against his blocked throat, against the way his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. “I’m so sorry!”

He’s crying, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, and his whole body hurts, every bruise and every scrape, his leg pulsating in tandem with his heartbeat.

“You had a nightmare,” Athos murmurs, sitting down beside him to pull him into an upright position that brings fresh tears to Aramis’ eyes. “Open your mouth please.”

Aramis does as he’s told, opens his mouth and swallows the pill Athos gives him, drinks a glass of water. He whimpers when Athos makes him lie back down, but then Athos slides into bed on his left side, takes him into his arms, holds him tight. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Aramis sniffs and squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to remember that awful dream, to focus on the present instead. Athos’ touch is familiar, his body a soothing line against his own, his hair brushing softly against his cheek when Aramis turns his face into Athos’ neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, his voice breaking over the whispered words. “I made you worry so much.”

“You did not do anything,” Athos says gently, cradling the back of Aramis’ head. “This is not your fault, Aramis.”

Aramis can’t quite agree with him, but keeps quiet. He needs to calm down, needs to skirt away from the edge of this. It takes him some time to slow his heart rate, to stop crying and breathe a little easier - but he still cannot shake the aftereffects of the dream. Its desperation and helplessness cling to him like feathers to tar, even when the effect of the painkiller kicks in.

“I’m here,” Athos says again, stroking his hand over Aramis’ back, as if he’s aware that Aramis is still struggling. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Aramis feels safe in his arms despite everything, tries to move a little closer, to get more of his warmth. “The dream was so awful,” he whispers against his skin. “You … you and Porthos were in it. You … got the phone call about my accident and … you were … worried … about me.”

Athos remains quiet and still for a long time. Then he huffs, brushes a kiss to Aramis’ temple. “So you were not dreaming about the accident - but how Porthos and I reacted to it?”

Aramis nods and sniffs. “Mh-hm.”

Athos kisses him again. “You might just be the sweetest person I have ever met.”

His words feel like a balm on Aramis’ soul. “No, that’s Porthos,” he mumbles, clinging to Athos’ pullover.

“I am not so sure about that,” Athos teases him. “You for one have never threatened to bite my head off because of a chocolate muffin.”

That tickles a little smile out of Aramis, and he sighs, nuzzles Athos’ throat. “Where is Porthos?”

“He had to go to work, my precious,” Athos discloses, petting his hair.

Aramis blinks and lifts his head. “Either I’m still dreaming or the pill you just gave me got me really high.”

“Is Porthos the only one who is allowed to call you ridiculous pet names then?” Athos drawls. “Is that how it is?”

Aramis looks into his eyes, sees the devotion and affection in them, and starts to feel weak all over. “I’m really sorry,” he whispers.

Athos sighs, endlessly fond. “Aramis, if you keep this up, I am going to install a guilt jar on the bedside table and make you pay up every time you apologize.”

Aramis presses his face into this chest. “But I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Then you better stop, hm?” Athos kisses the top of his head. “How are you feeling now? Pain all gone?”

“Mostly,” Aramis says. Then he bites his lip. “I think I need the bathroom.”

“That’s what the wheelchair is for,” Athos says calmly. “I am sure we can manage without Porthos’ superhuman strength.”

And they do. Barely.

“Well,” Athos wheezes once he has Aramis safely back in bed. “That certainly taught us to appreciate our muscleman a little more.”

Aramis smiles at him, floating on a pink cloud of painkiller induced complacency. “You love him a lot, don’t you?”

Athos lifts his chin. “I am not admitting to anything.” He makes Aramis comfortable and retreats to his armchair, picks up a book. “Do you want me to read to you?”

Aramis nods, already feeling sleepy again. “I can’t promise to stay awake for you though.”

“No worries,” Athos tells him. “I am very good at entertaining myself.”


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis is on the couch in the living room when Porthos comes home, if only for a change of scenery. He doesn’t know why lying on the sofa is less boring than lying in bed, _it just is_. Especially with the kittens around to entertain him. Howard is very definite about staying close to him at all times, purring like a little lawnmower. It’s quite perfect.

He’s warm and well fed. Athos has ordered them pumpkin soup for lunch, all but forced Aramis to eat before he supplied him with a fresh dose of painkillers to prevent further nightmares. Thus Aramis is not simply happy to see Porthos returned home, he’s _ecstatic_. “I missed you,” he warbles as Porthos bends over him for a kiss. “So much.”

“I can tell,” Porthos grins. He gives in to Aramis’ insistent pull on his pullover and sits down beside him, careful to keep Aramis’ blanket in place, eyes warm, shimmering with affection. “How are you feelin’, sweetness?”

“Really good,” Aramis smiles, pushing into his arms and breathing him in. As warm as he already is, Porthos’ warmth is better, somehow. “Athos took _such_ good care of me!”

“Did he now,” Porthos murmurs. He brushes his fingers through Aramis’ tangled hair, gently massages his scalp, makes Aramis sigh with bliss. “I’m glad.”

“There is soup for you in the microwave,” Athos informs him, watching them from his armchair. “I ordered it.”

“Since the kitchen is still in one piece I didn’t assume you made it yourself,” Porthos teases him. He shifts a little, arranges Aramis more comfortably in his arms. “You okay too, love?”

“Yes,” Athos sighs, apparently deeming this query quite unnecessary. “I am perfectly fine.”

“I had a nightmare earlier,” Aramis discloses. He grabs Porthos’ arm and presses his face against his bicep, closes his eyes. “It was awful. But Athos cuddled me really good. And he called me his _precious_!”

Athos clears his throat, sounds shy and embarrassed when he speaks. “He does not need to know all that, Aramis.”

“Oh yes, I do” Porthos insists gleefully. “Anythin’ else, kitten?”

“He read to me,” Aramis says, rubbing his cheek over the soft fabric covering Porthos’ arm, breathing deeply. “Oh, and he helped me to the bathroom!”

“Very well done on all fronts,” Porthos decides. “Definitely a keeper, don’t you think so, snuggles?”

Aramis nods, eyes firmly closed.

“That reminds me,” Athos speaks up. “I need your fingerprints. Both of yours. For an art project.”

The statement makes Aramis open his eyes and blink at him. “What art project?”

“It is a secret,” Athos tells him, cheeks suspiciously flushed. “I won’t tell.”

He gets to his feet and leaves the room, and Aramis turns his head, looks up at Porthos. “What was that all about?”

“I have no idea, pumpkin,” Porthos smiles at him. “You want me to catch him and tickle it out of him?”

Aramis giggles and shakes his head, takes Porthos’ hand into his to lace their fingers. “I want to wait for him to tell us himself.”

“Eh, but he’s always so cagey about his art projects,” Porthos pouts - just for Athos to return to the living room, sketchbook in hand ... as well as a stamp pad and a box of tissues.

“Let me see your hands please.”

“Can’t this wait?” Porthos mutters, but he relinquishes his hand without struggling, allows Athos to press his fingertips to the stamp pad before he applies them quite carefully to the sketchbook, takes five perfect fingerprints of Porthos’ right hand. Aramis sits up as best he can when it’s his turn, keeps perfectly still when Porthos wipes his fingers clean afterwards.

“I’m really curious what this is for.”

Athos smiles at him and remains silent, waiting for the ink to dry. Once it has he flips a few pages back in his sketchbook, shows Aramis a portrait of himself, blissfully asleep. “I want to turn this into a painting, if you do not mind.”

Aramis blushes horribly. “What?”

“For your parents,” Athos clarifies.

Aramis breathes a sigh of relief. He’d feared Athos would want to hang it in the hallway, the height of narcissism, for every visitor to see. Porthos chuckles into his ear. “Now you know how I felt when he put that massive picture of me up in the livin’ room when we first moved in together.”

Aramis gasps. “He did not!”

Athos looks at them both, unimpressed. “Do I have your permission, Aramis, or do I not?”

Aramis smiles at him. “Of course you do.” He sinks back into the couch, buzzing with happiness. “Oh, I bet my parents are going to love that! Thank you so much, Athos!” He turns his head to gaze up at the painting on the opposite wall: strong, swirling colours and gold dust, abstract lines full of meaning, containing love, friendship and devotion, a bond through the ages, and, for some reason, a dragon. It’s the most amazing thing Aramis has ever seen and he nearly starts to cry whenever he looks at it.

Next to him Porthos clears his throat. “Want me to give you a bath later? The salve from the hospital is supposed to be applied daily."

Aramis needs a moment to find back to reality, shakes his head and blinks a few times. “A bath would be nice, yes.”

Porthos kisses his cheek. “I’m gonna wash your hair and everythin’ … make you feel good all over.”

Athos closes his sketchbook and gets up. “Naughty.”

Aramis blushes, and Porthos chuckles delightedly. “Only if he asks nicely. I don’t think we should be doin’ that before his concussion’s healed anyway.”

“Well then you should take care how you express yourself,” Athos drawls. “You very nearly got _me_ in the mood.” He turns to bring his art tools back to his room, but Porthos gets up from the couch, catches him around the waist and pulls him in.

“Is that right?” He brushes Athos’ hair away from his nape with his right hand while his left holds Athos in place, fingers splayed low over his belly. He slowly leans in to press a kiss to the pale skin, lingering and soft, while Athos remains very still.

Aramis can see that Athos has closed his eyes, that he’s completely relaxed. “Yes,” he says, voice liquid with trust. “It is.”

Porthos pulls him in a little closer. “I can give you a bath as well, you know. Make _you_ feel good all over.”

His tone of voice is enough to give Aramis goosebumps, and he bites his lip, flushes with excitement. He _loves_ it when Porthos talks to Athos like that. Apparently Athos does, too. “First you take care of Aramis, yes?” he whispers. “Then we will see what else we have time for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was inspired by [THIS](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/post/152466023554/i-love-your-cuteness-and-kittens-series-so-much) plot bunny - reminding me of Athos and his art at quite the perfect moment!


	7. Chapter 7

Aramis is very definite about staying in the room while Porthos gives Athos a bath. It’s not that he wants to participate - he doesn’t think that he could, even if he wanted to. No, he just wants to watch. Because it’s special, each and every time.

So Porthos makes sure that he’s comfortable on a low footstool, once more dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and far enough removed from the tub so his cast won’t get wet no matter what. “No fallin’ asleep, you hear me?” Porthos looks Aramis up and down, tweaks a curl of his drying hair into place. “You get sleepy, you let me know.”

“I will,” Aramis promises him. “Even when I don’t think I could fall asleep.” He turns his head to look at Athos. “It feels really nice when he washes you.”

Athos smiles at him and bites his bottom lip. “So I gathered.” He’s flushed and soft around the edges, and Aramis can’t wait for Porthos to undress him and make him feel good. Moments like this are so rare, so precious.

Athos is like a flower that only blooms every few months, and wow, these painkillers really are something. Aramis blinks and ducks his head, looks up at Athos through his lashes. Well, it’s _true_. At least he didn’t say it out loud.

Porthos, for once oblivious to the embarrassing rail system that guides Aramis’ trains of thought, has turned to look at Athos as well. “You ready, love?” He sounds gentle and caressing, sounds as if he’s dealing with an especially skittish wild animal.

Athos rewards him with a soft smirk. “If I told you I was born ready, would you call me a liar?”

“I’d call you an excessive exaggerator,” Porthos chuckles, taking a step towards him. “But I appreciate the effort.” He takes another step, and another, while Athos remains where he is, eyes wide with … not fear, Aramis doesn’t think so. Maybe it’s anticipation. It should be, as far as Aramis is concerned. He’s anticipating this alright.

“Come here.” Porthos is finally standing in front of Athos, and he wastes no time in stripping him out of his pullover and the shirt he’s wearing underneath. Porthos himself is already shirtless from washing Aramis earlier, and Aramis bites his lip, seeing them together like this. Such perfect complements in almost every way.

Athos allows himself to be manhandled, is slow to lower his arms after being stripped out of his shirt. When he does he places his right hand on Porthos’ chest, fingers slightly crooked, pressing into the warm skin.

Porthos keeps still and lets him, smiles in approval. “You didn’t nick one of Aramis’ painkillers, did you, love?”

“I did not,” Athos drawls, blushing ever so slightly. “Are you telling me I am only allowed to touch you like this when I’m high?”

“I’m tellin’ you nothin’ of the sort,” Porthos murmurs. He reaches up to grasp Athos’ wrist, holds his hand in place with gentle determination. “Just makin’ sure.”

Athos looks up at him for a long moment, and then he leans in, goes to his tiptoes to press a kiss to Porthos’ mouth, lips slightly parted. “I would like my bath now,” he says as he pulls back, eyes wide open, dark with devotion. “Please.”

Porthos looks back at him with a curiously blank expression; then he blinks, smiles. “As you wish.” He lets got of Athos to turn on the tap, eyes the collection of bath essences and eventually goes for the one with lemon balm, adds it to the rapidly rising water.

On his footstool Aramis can’t help but notice how Athos’ eyes are fixed on every single one of Porthos’ movements, how they’re glued to Porthos’ skin, and Aramis can’t tell whether it’s dread or impatience that makes Athos bite his lip.

But when the tub is full and Porthos turns off the tap, it’s Athos who unbuttons his pants and shoves them down. He’s still looking at Porthos when he does, and now Aramis recognizes his expression, promptly wants to sit up a little straighter and earns himself a painful twinge in his broken leg.

Neither Athos nor Porthos notice. Because Athos is naked now, and he moves to stand in front of Porthos, lifts his hand to put it on Porthos’ hip, to stroke his thumb over the skin above his waistband. “Will you take these off, please?”

Again Porthos’ face is curiously blank for a split second, and then he grins, white and blinding. “The shorts too, or just the jeans?”  
“Just the jeans,” Athos clarifies, blushing ever so slightly. “It would make me feel less exposed … I think.”

Thus Aramis gets treated to the visual of his boyfriends being rather naked with each other and promptly forgets his discomfort about his leg. This is amazing. He should have brought his phone to film it.

He watches eagerly as Porthos helps Athos into the tub, smiles when Porthos sits down on the steps leading up to it. He’s always loved this bathroom - loved it for the generous shower and the two sinks, but especially for the luxurious tub. Its broad steps allow Porthos to sit comfortably while washing Athos - made it possible for him to wash Aramis' hair earlier by making him lie on the topmost step and squatting down in the tub himself.

Athos relaxes into the water with a sigh, turns his head to look straight at Aramis. “Are you still comfortable over there?”

“Very,” Aramis assures him. He wouldn’t give up his spot even if his leg was falling off.

Porthos appears to be aware of that, turns his head to grin at Aramis, looks him up and down. “Enjoyin’ the show, are you?”

“It is hardly that,” Athos comments. He shifts in the water, opens his legs and closes his eyes. “It is very nice though.”

Porthos returns his attention to him, gazes at his relaxed features for a long moment. Then he grabs himself a washcloth from the open shelf next to the bathtub, lowers it into the water. Athos makes a curious noise when Porthos touches him, but he keeps his eyes closed, takes a deep breath.

Aramis can tell that he’s enjoying himself, and has to suppress a squee. This is _great_.

“You good, love?” Porthos asks in a low voice, and Athos hums his approval, sighs and opens his eyes to look at him.

“Very,” Athos smiles, echoing Aramis’ assurance from before. He looks at Porthos, searching, and then he reaches up, puts his hand on Porthos’ neck and pulls him in for a kiss.

Aramis can’t believe this is happening. It was absolutely worth it breaking his leg for this. Because Porthos closes his eyes for the kiss, his hand in the tub still moving back and forth over Athos’ naked body, and this is the hottest thing Aramis has ever seen.

He wouldn’t mind Porthos taking off his shorts and joining Athos in the tub - wouldn’t mind him lying down on top of Athos, grinding down on him between his spread legs -

Of course that’s when Porthos breaks the kiss and sits back up, looking stunned but determined. “None of that. I don’t wanna give Aramis an aneurism.”

Aramis wants to die on the spot.

Athos looks horribly crestfallen. “I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t,” Porthos tells him, suddenly grinning euphorically. “That was amazin’. We’re totally doin’ it again once Aramis’ brain is no longer in danger of fallin’ out.”

That doesn’t make Aramis feel any better, especially considering the fact that his brain is _always_ in danger of falling out. He doesn’t find it altogether fair that he’s being deprived of the best show of his life just because he might barf at any moment. Stupid concussion.

Porthos needs to get his priorities straight. Bollocks.

**Author's Note:**

> This was once more inspired by a comment conversation below one of the previous installments. I should really start a notebook to help me remember things ...
> 
> EDIT: it was vetcadet! Thank you for revealing yourself as the hero of this story. So to speak.


End file.
